As The Moon Turns
by sixdrunkmonkeys
Summary: You’re a werewolf, huh? Are you Michael Jackson too? Seth is ecstatic that he’s finally imprinted, but he hadn’t expected it to turn out quite like this. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: No copyright infrigement is intended on Stephanie Meyer or her characters with this fic.

Summary: _You're a werewolf, huh? Are you Michael Jackson too_? Seth is ecstatic that he's finally imprinted, but he hadn't expected it to turn out quite like this. Slash.

"Fuck, that hurt."

I winced as my butt collided with the tile floor of the classroom, landing right on my tail bone. I was going to have a bruise for _days,_ damn it. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the curious looks from the students already seated at their desks. It was the first class of the year – my first class ever, since I had just transferred – and clearly, with the size of the reservation, new students were a novelty. I found an isolated seat in the back row. Hopefully we wouldn't have assigned seating. This was Calculus, and I didn't know how successful I would be at staying alert if I ended up in the front.

I sat at my desk, glancing around while I waited. It wasn't much of a room. The tile floor was faded and scuffed, the cement walls dirty and the small rectangular window near the top of the wall in need of replacing. Two iridescent bulbs gave off a harsh light from the ceiling. It reminded me of a large prison cell. I snorted at the thought.

Several moments before the bell rang a large flood of students swept into the classroom and grabbed their own desks. Through the mass of shifting students, three figures poked up above the rest. Toward the back of the line stood three ridiculously large guys. They were all easily over six foot, dark skinned and muscled, obviously of native blood. I internally winced. It was not a good stroke to one's ego when another guy's bicep was the size of your waist. Jesus.

The shorter one – and by short, I meant not over 6' 9" – glanced around the room, looking bored. I watched him snicker when he saw the teacher first notice the three of them. Her eyes widened comically when she took in their size. I guess it was her first year, or else these guys were new too.

Eventually his gaze swept by me – and then froze there.

Eh? Was Tall, Dark and Massive making eye contact? Wow, that was an intense look. Was he okay? He wasn't blinking. Now he was… shaking? Hmm, slightly uncomfortable here. Was he going to look away anytime soon?

Huh. Time to find something else to look at. I stared down at my desk. _Mike and Kayla forever. I love Fall Out Boy. Susie is a ho-bag. _

A moment later someone cleared their throat directly to my left. I looked up to see the shorter Mammoth Man beaming down at me.

"Hi, I'm Seth." Seth had the most obnoxiously bright smile ever seen by man or beast. He stuck his hand out for me to shake. "Welcome to the Quileute Reservation." By the number of teeth I could see, the prospect of shaking my hand just about made his freakin' day. What was this guy _on? _He was entirely too happy.

I eyed him warily. "Mitchell." His face fell slightly when I ignored his hand, but he soon regained his mega-watt smile and plopped down on the desk beside me. Even sitting down, he towered over me. Not that I was that tall myself – I daily cursed my parents' genes for my 5'4" height – but even so, the guy was freaking _huge._ I wondered how many steroids he popped on a daily basis.

"So where you from, Mitchell?" Was this guy part of the welcome committee, or what?

"Detroit."

"Cool," he bobbed his head a few times. "What brings you to fair Washington?"

I shrugged and leaned back in my seat. "The folks wanted me out." I may have my moments, but I wasn't _retarded._ Living completely on the streets wasn't an attractive alternative, and if moving in with my grandparents for a year was what I had to do to finish high school, well… I'd live. As far as keeping my fix went, surely even in a small Indian reservation you could find some pot. Or maybe it would be easier. Wasn't there a tribe down south where they all smoked hallucinogens together?

"Oh," he chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "Well, I'm glad you came to the Rez. Let me know if you need anything." He gave me one last smile before turning to face the teacher as she started class.

I only half listened to the thirty year old woman at the front lecture about geometric proofs, too busy watching this Seth character out of the corner of my eye. He stretched his arms behind him while leaning his chest forward, and the very gay part of me couldn't help but appreciate, if only on the smallest of levels, that he was ripped. Like, _hot damn_ ripped. Seriously, how often did the guy work out?

I forced my attention to the teacher. Guys twice my size that could probably break my arm with their pinkies if they were so inclined did not make good subjects for gay speculation. I sighed. What were the odds of finding a nice, homosexual male in an Indian reservation?

...

One day later I sat in the same desk as before, this time being careful not to trip and injure my butt on my way there; I had a bruise on my ass from yesterday. I leaned back in my seat and turned up the music to my ear buds. I had a solid three minutes before most of the kids would arrive, and I intended to make the most of it. But before I could completely close my eyes and zone out my surroundings, I heard a loud _creak_ as someone slid heavily into the desk on my right side.

I cracked an eye open. Oh geez. It was one of Seth's buddies. Large, russet and body-builder.

"Hey," the gigantic man caught my gaze. "You're Mitchell Mason, right?" What the – he knew my full name? I reluctantly yanked out one ear bud to hear him better.

I opened my other eye and gave him a hard look. "Do I know you?"

He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. "No. But Seth met you yesterday."

"So he did." There was an awkward silence. I stretched my neck. Dang, I hate muscle kinks.

"I'm Antonio, by the way."

I stared. This Native hunk was claiming to be Italian? _Right._ "Mitchell, but you already knew that."

He nodded. "My friends call me Tony." He clasped my shoulder briefly and raised his eyebrows. What was he, part of the Quileute mafia?

"But – " and now he seemed to give himself a shake, and focused on me with new concentration. "You're Mitchell Mason."

"Yes." I snapped. Hadn't we already been through this?

"And you're – you're a guy. A male."

Was he fucking _joking?_

"Yeeeeeah." I stretched it out, putting as much _No shit, Sherlock_ into it as I could. "Last I checked." Dickwad.

"Huh." He seemed to find whatever I had said satisfactory, and he leaned away from me, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The whole town was crazy. Insane. Nutzo.

There was another loud _creak_, only this time from my left side. Mr. Sunshine and Rainbows looked as happy as ever, and just as ready to talk as his friend had been.

"So what's up? My – uh – home skillet?" He peered hopefully at me.

Jesus H. Christ. Did he just call me _home skillet?_ He grinned that fuckin' _smile_ at me again, evidently waiting for my response.

Well, shit. I think he did.

"Yeah, homie g – " Do not laugh. Do not laugh. "- I'm just _dope_." The sarcasm could not have been thicker.

He looked slightly confused for a moment, but quickly regained his grin. "That's a good thing, right?" Behind me I heard Antonio attempting to muffle his laughter.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Was this guy for real? "Yep." I popped my lips on the p.

Seth's eyes darted up and down my face for a moment. "Bangin'!" Oh no. He wasn't finished. "How do you like my crib, home – er, dog?" The snickering behind me grew louder.

My hand dropped off my nose and I sighed wearily. "Whatever point you're trying to get across, just make it, alright?" I'd had enough of this. Whatever bully crap they were going to pull, get it over with.

"Point, my bro?" Fuck it.

Jerking up, I threw my fist, ready to punch that smile right off his face – and was promptly halted by a hand twice the size of mine. I blinked. Had he just caught my fist? I gaped uncomprehendingly. Well _damn. _I might be a scrawny midget, but I knew how to pack a punch, and I was fast. You didn't grow up downtown without learning a thing or two about taking care of yourself. But he had caught my incoming fist like it was an everyday occurrence. His eyes were wide, looking worried. Ha! If even my scarecrow frame could scare Muscles here, then wait until I sicked my quarterback friends on him. _Note to self: Get football friends._ He moved my fist back to my side and released it, now looking more like a thundercloud. Ah, scratch that. His eyes narrowed.

Shit shit shit. _Second Note to Self: Do not tick off abnormally large men without a weapon. _That's right, Mitchell - attack the bullies who have violent intent in mind. What I really that naïve? I cringed, waiting for the response. _Please don't go for the nose._ Seth leaned forward, preparing to strike –

"I'm so sorry Mitchell, are you okay?"

Wait. What?

"I was only trying to make you feel welcome. I didn't mean to make you upset." He sounded desolate. His eyes were the biggest fucking brown eyes I had ever seen. Woah, his face was close. "Whatever I said, I'm sorry." Lots of hard muscle right up in touching range. Lots of _warm_ hard muscle. Heh. Jesus, the boy was hot.

_Why_ was he close enough that I could feel his body heat?

"Get up off me, man." I glared at him. Almost instantaneously, he retreated to his desk. He looked like I imagined someone would if you had just strangled their kitten. What was up with this guy?

"Look buddy, I don't know what's wrong with you, but just leave me the hell alone, alright?"

Something indiscernible flashed in his eyes. "I'm sorry for offending you," he said softly.

I snorted. "Offending me? Is that what you think that was?"

He seemed to sit up a little straighter and look less like I had killed his favorite pet. "When I heard you were from Detroit, I googled some basic gangster slang to try to make you feel more comfortable," he explained. "I guess it… didn't go so well." He looked at the floor sheepishly.

I stared. He had done what?

"So," he faltered, licked his lips, and tried again. "So you don't actually talk like that, eh?"

I tried to stop it, but the corner of my mouth twitched up. He had googled _gangster slang_? Seth must have seen it, because his beaming smile returned with full force. He thought I spoke slang, so he looked it up. Who does that? I suppressed the urge with all my might, but a snicker managed to sneak its way out. If it was possible, he seemed even happier.

"Yeah, well, don't do it again." Seth just sat back in his seat, grinning for all he was worth. A thought occurred to me, and I calmed. "Just because I'm from Detroit doesn't mean I'm some hard core gang member, got it?" Ha. Look at me, I'm Mitchell and trying to be threatening. What's next, terrorizing small children?

He nodded, looking at me soberly. "I won't assume again." Whatever you say, man. I had successfully avoided being pummeled. I needed to celebrate; it'd been almost two weeks since my last hit.

"Sure you won't," I paused. Did I want to push my luck? Hell, sure I did. "_Home skillet."_

Antonio's roaring laughter bounced off the walls.

...

I looked up at the leaning pile of Bud Light with reservation. Why was it, whenever supermarkets stacked items at the end of aisles, they tried to make the next Empire State Building? The top of the pile was easily two feet above my head, and was designed in such a way that if I took a case out from the bottom of the pile, the whole thing would fall down on top of my head. I kicked the can closest to me in frustration. Shit! I forgot I was wearing flip-flops. I looked down at my bruised toes morosely.

I narrowed my eyes at the beer. No pile of cheap alcohol was going to outsmart Mitchell Mason. I looked around for something to stand on. Ha! Someone had left a footstool sitting in the aisle next to me. It made a loud scraping noise as I dragged it over. I was now a good eight inches higher, but still no closer to being able to reach the top of the heap. Damn it all.

A few minutes later, a precarious looking sack of flour was piled on top of the footstool. I gave it a hard glare in warning. Clambering my way to the top, I stretched my arms up as far as I could. _Just a few inches more_, I stepped on the tips of my toes and – success! The case was _mine._ Giving a heave, I tugged it off –

- and immediately staggered under the weight of it. These cases were _heavy._ As I felt the sack beneath me shift with the sudden influx in weight, suddenly my flour concoction seemed less like a stroke of brilliance.

Aw, shit.

The sack tipped to the side, and down I went, the case ramming into my stomach. I closed my eyes tightly, waiting for the impact. _Oof_. I would have a good sized bruise on my stomach in a few hours. Shoving the beer off me, I blinked rapidly at my suddenly white surroundings. The case must have caught the flour bag and ripped it open while I fell. I had no luck in this town.

Sighing, I scrambled to my feet, grabbed the case, and hoisted it into my cart. I'd better let the workers know that they now had a big powdery mess to deal with. Pushing the cart forward, I slipped on a particularly heavy patch of flour and barely caught myself.

"Real smooth there, buddy." A mocking feminine voice called out.

I turned and glared at her. She was tall – was there something in the water? Maybe I should drink more – and fit, with dark eyes and dark hair. Mid twenties? She was also directly in my path.

"What's it to ya?"

"I'm just a concerned citizen. Wouldn't want you to hurt somebody." Enough with the sarcasm, lady. If her expression had been less of a grimace and more of a smile, she might have been pretty.

"Yeah, whatever. Can you move?" I was originally going to try to grab another case, but now I was irritated.

"Why are you buying that much beer, anyway?" she asked, ignoring me. "You don't look 21." She raised an eyebrow. Damn it, I hated people who could do that.

"Not your business." I snapped.

She looked at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. A flash of recognition seemed to cross her face, but I hadn't seen her before in my life. "You need help with another one?"

I looked at her suspiciously. "_Why?_"

She shrugged. "You're a shrimp." Why thanks, I like you too. Bitch.

Still, she was right. "I guess."

Her lips twitched. "You guess you're a shrimp, or you guess you want another case?"

"Look lady, if you're gonna hand me the damn case then do it already, or else move out of my way so I can buy this."

She put her hands up in a supplicating motion. "Keep your shirt on. I'll get it." True to her word, there was soon another case of Bud Light sitting in my cart. I had to give it an extra hard push to get it moving. I watched her walk farther down the aisle to a cart that I had originally assumed to be some sort of special deal the store was holding, only I hadn't seen a sign so I ignored it; it was nearly overflowing with food.

"You're buying all that?" I motioned to the cart.

"Yeah. You have an issue with that?"

I quickly shook my head. "No, that's just… a lot of food."

She shrugged. "I have a big family. Everybody's related to somebody here."

"Oh." Still, the amount of meat, corn and potatoes was astounding.

She smiled a little. "We have a lot of growing boys, too. Just like yourself." She winked.

I snorted. My eating skills were sadly lacking. I just stopped eating when I full, which was evidently a very non-masculine trait. But it wasn't _feminine,_ damn it.

She glanced at me again, running a hand through her hair. "You're that new kid, right? Mitchell Mason?" Did _everyone_ know my name?

"Who's asking?" I bet it was Seth's buddy and his frickin' Mafia. I knew they had taken the "he's from Detroit" thing to heart. Well, if they thought I was going to hook them up with some drugs they had another thing coming. I felt the comforting weight of my Glock under my jacket. If anyone tried something, I was ready.

"Oh, word gets around," she said vaguely. "Say, you want to come to the get-together we're having for all this food?"

"Er," the last thing I want to do was head _into_ these guys' turf, but it was probably better to get whatever confrontation we had to go through over then delay it any longer.

"Half of the Rez'll be there," she encouraged. "I'm sure you'll know someone. And Emily is a great cook." She gave me another smile. Half of the Reservation, eh? They couldn't do anything _too_ horrible with that many witnesses, right?

I shrugged. "What the hell, I'll come."

...

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	2. Chapter 2

This was a bad idea. An amazingly bad idea. Yet here I was. Damn it.

I gripped the steering wheel of the beat up '84 Mazda my grandfather had given me the previous week. The old thing had been sitting in his back yard. It was pretty decent of him – even if the hood's forest green paint job contrasted almost comically to the soft red of the rest of the car. The windows didn't move (including the back right one that was permanently cracked open two inches), the radio didn't play, and I was very nervous to move the mat on the floor of the passenger side for fear that whistling noise I'd heard would be the result of a rather large hole. I doubted he cared much about the piece of junk, which was why he had given it to me. Or at least I hoped so, since the freakin' idiot boy I'd swerved to avoid had left me with a good sized dent. Er, not the boy, but the tree I ended up scraping against. Fucking kids.

But injured or not, the car had gotten me to the Reservation in one piece, except now I realized Leah had never specified exactly _where_ this "get together" was going to be. And fuck me sideways if I was going to wander around until I found it. It was all very convenient, really. I could turn the car around, head back home and not feel guilty in the slightest. I couldn't find it; she hadn't given me directions. No one could blame me for that. I had been handed the perfect Get Out of Jail Free Card, and damn it all, but I was going to take it.

No sense in tempting fate until you had to, right?

That thought in mind, I turned the car around – which had surprisingly good handling for a piece of crap automobile – and was immediately stopped by a person standing in front of my hood, hands on her hips.

"Mitchell!" she greeted, and moved toward my window. Kind of creepy the way you just appeared, there. Was that normal? She made a motion that was supposed to indicate to me to roll down my window. Ha. That's not gonna help you, honey.

I cracked open my door so she could hear me. I swear she hadn't been anywhere near this dirt road ten seconds ago when I drove down it. "Hi…" I quickly realized I had never gotten her name earlier that day. "…there" I finished lamely.

She quirked a brow. "It's Leah," Was she barefoot? Weird. "and you _do _realize you're an hour late?"

_Oh_ no. There was no way she was going to try to blame me. "If somebody had bothered to tell me what time to show up, maybe I wouldn't be." I snapped. And maybe if I wasn't an idiot, I could have used that distinct lack of information to have never showed up here. She just snorted.

She jerked her thumb to the side. "Lemme hop in, I'll show you how to get there." She walked around to the passenger door and, after a brief fight with the door handle, slipped inside. "You'll wanna back up a bit, you just missed the side road," she glanced behind us. "It's about 600 fee – is that Darth Vader?"

Fuck. I'd forgotten about the bobble heads.

Darth Vader and Yoda, thankfully mostly stationary by now, swayed gently up and down. Leah looked at me incredulously. "You have Star Wars bobbleheads in the back of your car." Her eyes moved from the bobble heads, to me, to the bobble heads.

I stared at her. What that a rhetorical question?

"You're a fucking _geek_." She spat it out like it was a dirty word.

"And you're a bitch," I said. "You can get out of the car any time."

"No," she shook her head firmly. "I'm not going anywhere. It's just – well, it's sort of strange, alright?"

"You got a problem with them?"

She sighed, her head falling against the headrest with a _thump_. "I'm not criticizing you."

"Then get up off my back about 'em, huh?" Coming here was a _bad _idea.

"If you would give me two seconds to explain instead of jumping down my throat, we wouldn't be having this argument. "

"Listen sister, if you wanna see me jump down somebody's _throat _–"

"Mitchell, chill. You like the bobble heads. I don't."

"They're _my_ bobble heads," I said, somewhat defensively. "If you don't like them, then move your fucking eyes else –"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't mock the nice man's toys. Jesus, Mitchell. You're crazy, you know that?"

"And you're a regular piece of sunshine and roses," I bit back. She grimaced, but pointed to a dirt road to the left of us without comment. "Turn there," she said, and didn't look at me again, although I heard quite a few muttered, "fucking Star Wars _bobbleheads_," under her breath before she had to give me directions again.

When I figured enough time had elapsed that she wasn't going to attack me for my choices in entertainment, I watched her out the corner of my eye and asked "Where's this party anyway?"

Her lips instantly pressed firmly together. "Sam and Emily's house," she said tightly. Never mind the fact I didn't have a flippin' idea who Sam and Emily were – she had invited me to a party hosted by people she… didn't like?

"Didn't realize it was such a sore subject," I replied.

"Well it is," she snapped. Woah. The woman clearly has issues.

I shrugged. "Ok." There was no way I was going near _that_ with a ten foot pole.

A few turns and twists later, we ended up in front of a house tucked neatly away on some backwater road. The windows were dirty and the siding needed to be replaced, but otherwise it seemed well taken care of. Even the bushes in the front yard were neatly trimmed. It was cute, in a 50's-all-american-dream sort of way. There was no picket fence, but had there been, it definitely would have been white.

It was also on the edge of a forest.

Did I mention I don't like the great outdoors? Wild plant life, animal life, whatever – nothing good ever came of it.

My assumption that, since my grandparents' side of town was fully developed, the rest of the Reservation would be, was clearly mistaken. Still, it was daylight, and I highly doubted these people would live in an area that held anything dangerous.

"This it?" Obviously this was it, or else we wouldn't have stopped here, but Leah hadn't said anything.

"Head 'round to the back," she said after a moment. I couldn't help but notice there was no one else in sight. That certainly didn't help the Masonesque scenarios running through my head. Anyone could easily slit my throat and no one would be the wiser. "They should all be there." That seemed to cheer her up a bit, because she was smiling a little now, even if she was looking at me with what I think was a sly expression on her face.

Shit. She knew something.

"Something up?" Not that Leah was about to tell me if she was in on it. I mentally kicked myself. Was it true that crimes that occurred on an Indian Reservation didn't go to the same courts as the rest of the nation? Coming here had been a bad idea. How many times was I going to have to say it before I listened to myself and got the hell out of here?

"Nope. Let's head out, shrimp-boy." I sighed. There was no help for it. Get in, figure out what was going on, get out.

Glock in coat pocket. Cell phone in jeans. Mind awake and alert.

That was all I could hope for.

Leah behind me, I walked briskly along the side of the house to the backyard. I was tense, trying to prepare myself for whatever I found. Turning the corner, I stopped and _stared._ How… discerning.

There were dozens of them. Dozens of obviously Native American men, but that wasn't the creepy part. _They all looked the same. _They were all insanely large, muscular guys with short dark hair, looking for all the world like they could rip my arm off without a second thought – that is, after they finished shooting for a slutty romance cover. A fair number of them didn't have shirts on. There weren't very many ways you could achieve uniform looks like that. What did they do? Genetic engineering? Plastic surgery?

I turned my head slightly so I could see Leah's expression, and she had the biggest shit-eating grin I'd ever seen in my life. Not good. She motioned for me to follow her, and lead me to one of the picnic tables nearest us. Most of the people – and it _was_ people, not just guys, I was happy to notice – seemed to be eating and socializing, but the three guys at this table were just sitting, not saying anything.

"Hey guys," Leah greeted. Three heads snapped up, and one pair of brown eyes instantly met gazes with my own. Seth. Fabulous. I was expecting him to be here, but a small part of me was hoping I could avoid another awkward confrontation with him and… what was his Mafia friend's name?

"Mitchell!" boomed the man sitting next to Seth. Ah, there he was. Tony the Italian Indian.

I was so screwed.

I attempted some form of a smile, but I think it came out looking more like I was constipated. All three of them were staring at me now, and by the sudden hush that seemed to sweep over the yard, my arrival was quite the commotion. I groaned internally.

I nodded in greeting, but didn't say anything. I'd be damned if I could remember _why_ I'd decided to show my face here. I'd had a plan, where had it gone?

I chided myself not to panic. There must be a perfectly reasonable explanation for why I'd just been dragged into the Ken Clone Convention.

Seth was smiling again – _ugh_ – and leaned forward toward me. "Hi Mitchell," he said quietly. Quieter then I'd thought he'd be able to talk, to be honest. I gave him my I-ate-too-many-bananas smile again, and glanced around, trying to avoid any sort of conversation. Most of these guys didn't seem to wearing shoes. Was it some sort of strange Quileuten practice? Save the purity of nature or some shit.

"He yours, then?" asked the third guy at the table. He was even bigger then Seth or Tony, if that was possible.

Seth glanced at me hesitantly before turning to the man who'd addressed him. "Yeah, Jared."

Was who Seth's? I looked around for a pet, but didn't see one. I think I missed something.

Jared grinned. "Congrats," He gave me a once over, then turned back to Seth. "Good luck, man."

Wait. He wasn't implying…

By Seth's sudden blush – which wasn't attractive in the slightest, damn it – he _was._

_Fuck_ _no._

My whole body tensed and my eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?" What, did they think they could just stake ownership on people like they were acres of land? Squatters' rights? _Yeah, that little blonde kid in the corner's worth a good ten bucks._ Who the _fuck _did they think they were?

Seth's eyes were huge, and he looked upset. He stood and moved next to me so quickly I wondered if I'd dazed out for a second. "I didn't mean how it sounded," he pleaded. Sure it didn't, bub. He raised one of his hands like he was going to touch my shoulder, but stopped when I glared at him for all I was worth.

What was going _on_ here? They all looked alike; they invited people over to claim some sort of sick ownership….

Suddenly it clicked.

I'd just walked into a cult.

Well, shit. Maybe my Charles Mason fears hadn't been so unfounded after all.

I needed to get out of here. And by here, I didn't just mean the cult's backyard, although that was definitely priority one. I needed to get out of the state. Damn, maybe even the country. These people were certifiable, and suddenly all I could think of was my friend Katie from Michigan who'd been sucked into a religious sect and ended up dead two months later.

"Doesn't matter," I told Seth hurriedly. "I just remembered I'd agreed to help my grandpa with some stuff, so I gotta split. Enjoy your… food." I doubted he'd understood everything with the speed that I was talking, but I didn't care enough to see. With that, I turned tail and walked as fast as I could without running back to my car. Someone laughed behind me as I fled.

I didn't hear any footsteps, but suddenly a hand curled around my bicep and pulled me around.

It was Tony, and he looked _pissed._ "Don't leave," he ordered. I wrenched my arm out of his grip – somehow I suspected he'd only let me – and backed up several steps. Seth was suddenly standing beside Tony, still looking distressed. "Don't touch him," he growled – yes_, growled_ – at Tony, then turned to me. "Just give me a second to explain, Mitchell." Frick, this was bad.

I looked at both of them. I probably looked slightly panicked, which made sense, since I was about as calm as a piece of china in a hurricane. They both raised their hands in a placating gesture. In _unison._ It would have been funny if it hadn't been creepy as hell. I turned to sprint back to my car, but someone, probably Tony, had grabbed my left arm again.

Before I had even given thought to what I was doing, my Glock was out and resting upwards against the guy's throat. The safety was still on, but my intention was clear.

The man blinked several times, looking shocked, and I realized it was Seth who had grabbed me. Didn't change anything, but somehow I thought this situation would have been easier had it been Tony.

"Listen," I said gruffly. "I don't know what weird shit you guys are up to, and I really don't give a damn what it is. But I want _nothing_ to do with it. Turn around, head back to your group, and leave me the fuck alone. You'll get along just fine without another member to your little… club." I didn't know how else to say it. How does one tell a cult to fuck off with your limbs intact?

Seth gave a slight jerk of his head that I took to be a nod. I moved back, but still kept it aimed at his chest. Now that I was far enough away from him to be able to see his face, he looked… _amused?_ It was gone before I could think about it properly, but for a brief moment I thought he looked like he wanted to laugh, but now he had his you-kicked-my-kitten expression back on.

I backed up slowly, the Glock still trained on him.

Seth regarded me calculatingly. "What, exactly, do you think we are?" I distinctly noticed he hadn't said who.

"I just said I don't know and don't care. Now leave me the hell alone." I inched back achingly slowly. If I kept them talking, I might be able to get close enough to the car to make a break for it.

"I would never force you to do something you didn't want to do, Mitchell," he said softly.

"Then leave me alone," I stated firmly.

"If – if that's what you want." He looked like he was in pain when he said it.

"Yeah." I paused. We had attracted quite a crowd. More people to witness the attempted turning of a convert, no doubt. "So I'm gonna go now, and you're going to stay here." It didn't sound as confident as I'd hoped.

"If you're sure." No, I wasn't certain that I wanted to run away from some cult that genetically engineered its members.

"Uh, yeah. Positive."

He nodded very slowly, his eyes, now impossibly large and – shiny? Was he going to _cry?_ – never breaking my gaze.

"Right then." I backed up cautiously. No one did anything, so I figured I was safe. Walking slightly less like a crazy person, I reached my car, slid inside and started the engine without incident. Driving forward slowly on the dirt road, I made it about five hundred feet before a hand appeared on the side of the car and a voice urged, "Stop!" I slammed down the brakes on reflex.

No! I knew I got away too easily. This was it. It was convert or die.

Seth's head appeared next to my window, and he spoke extra loudly to penetrate through the car door. "Take care of yourself, you hear? Stay safe." His other hand reached up to rest his palm against the window.

I nodded vigorously. "Sure thing." Seth seemed to find what I said satisfactory and moved away from the car. Was that it? No _by the way, we'll have to sacrifice your heart to the heathen gods for refusing their divinity_? I floored it.

It took about ten wrong turns and half a tank of gas before I made it back to my grandparent's house. Adrenaline still pumping, I turned off the engine and rested my head against the steering wheel. And I'd thought downtown at two A.M. had been bad.

What the _hell_ was I supposed to do now?

AN: Thank you all for your encouraging reviews! This is my first Twilight fic, so I was very apprehensive about posting. Please keep them coming! :)


	3. Chapter 3

A few hours later I was as calm and collected as I was bound to get. Seth had seemed sincere in his agreement to leave me alone, but that meant exactly jack shit to the rest of the cult, I'd wager; Tony had been _awfully_ ticked off when I tried to leave. By now I probably knew too much.

It was time to go home. Screw high school, I wanted to live to see nineteen.

I reached into my back pocket for my cell phone and only encountered my denim covered behind. Sighing, I rubbed my forehead. I'd forgotten I didn't have a cell phone. I'd lost my last one right before I'd moved to Washington, and considering most of my time here had been spent moving in, working or panicking like a school girl, there hadn't been much time to worry about a new one. None of this would have mattered, of course, except for the fact that now I had to find a freaking _pay phone_ because my grandparents were somehow hip enough to own a cell phone of their own, and had gotten rid of their land line.

I pulled back the French lace curtain to the front window and peered cautiously outside. A payphone meant driving to a gas station, which meant getting in the car, which meant leaving the house. The thought of abandoning the security of a thick, locked door wasn't at all attractive.

Be a man, I told myself. Get out there and make that call.

I _was_ going to drive to the payphone and I _was_ going to call home.

As I stepped out onto the porch and locked the door beside me, I took a deep breath and firmly told myself to calm down. I had been in tougher spots; it was just a drive to the gas station, for Christ's sake.

I checked my mirrors every few seconds on my way. Nothing looked suspicious, but I didn't have the damndest idea what I should be looking for. For all I knew every '99 beige Toyota I came across was secretly a lookout vehicle for the cult.

Shit, now I was paranoid.

I had almost reached the gas station. As I pulled in, I noticed there were only three cars in the lot: two pumping gas and the third, probably the owner, parked in the small parking strip to the side. I cast another glance over my shoulder as I shifted into Park and stepped out of the car. My nerves had only gotten worse on the ride here, and I had to make a conscious effort not to let my hand shake as I shut the car door behind me. This was beyond ridiculous; I was a grown man. Get a grip, Mitchell.

I crossed the two feet to the pay phone and hurriedly slipped in the change. They're not watching you, I told myself sternly. Nevertheless, I turned my body so I could simultaneously reach the pay phone and view the incoming traffic. Nothing abnormal, except for –

Holy Mother of God, was that a Spyker C12 Zagato? I gaped, slack-jawed at the car for a few seconds before I remembered that I was supposed to be terrified out of my wits and needed to make a phone call.

I dialed the right order of numbers, but never let my gaze leave the Spyker. It was fucking _gorgeous._ About as subtle as a large, unfriendly knife in your chest that read _You Will Never Be This Rich_ and equally pretentious, but who the fuck cared? My shameless ogling was interrupted by an irritated voice in my ear.

"Lears. What the fuck do you want?"

I smiled. As pleasant as always. "Kevin, it's me."

"Mason?" Kevin Lears had this habit of referring to people by their last name. I think he thinks it makes him sound tough.

"Right here, Kevin. Look, I need a favor." My eyes lingered on the silver sports car parked outside the gas station. Who the hell in this town could afford a car like that, anyway? I hadn't noticed any aging dignitaries. Was there a celebrity hidden away in one of the hills?

"A favor? Who the fuck said I owed you a favor?" He sounded hoarse. Had I woke him up out of his sleep at four in the afternoon?

"You did – right before I saved your sorry ass from five years in the slammer."

A long pause. "What do you want?"

"A week on your couch." He might be a pain in the ass, but Kevin didn't rat people out, and it would take me at least a week to find a new gig back home. "A quiet, empty week, Kevin." I heard him sigh heavily into the telephone. "What kinda shit you in, Mason?"

"A little local trouble, nothing big. I just need to get outta town. Anyway, I won't bring a thing to your door, so don't worry 'bout it."

"Yeah, yeah. You know you have my fucking couch when you need it. You get a week, Mason. That's it."

"S'what I figured. Thanks, Kevin."

"Whatever. After this we're even, agreed?"

I opened my mouth to reply in the affirmative when – _holy shit the man matches the car._

I didn't think it was _possible_ for a human being to be as beautiful as the Spyker he was driving, but this – this paradigm of beauty, thi_s_ abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous man had just walked up to the car and was leaning against it, looking for all the world like a movie star about to shoot his big scene.

A girl of equal attractiveness walked up behind him and kissed him on the side of the neck. He smiled and circled his arm around her waist. How very…heterosexual.

Life was cruel.

"-son? Mitchell? Is fucking Mitchell fucking Mason on this fucking line?"

I jerked back into reality. "Sorry, man. Yeah, all debts canceled. Sure."

"Fine. I'll see you whenever." Dial tone. Well, at least I had a place. Now to work on transportation back across the nation….

By this time the supermodel couple had started the engine – good god it didn't run, it _purred – _ and pulled around to exit the gas station.

And stopped directly in front of me.

The window rolled down and a pair of what I'm sure were exorbitantly priced sunglasses gazed out from inside the car. He slipped them off with one hand – god, his eyes were striking – and opened his mouth to speak –

"Do you like the car?" interjected a feminine voice. The stunning brunette leaned over his shoulder to smile at me.

Was that a serious question? "That's not a car," I said in all seriousness. "That's sex on wheels." The brunette covered her mouth with her hand while she giggled. The man shot her an irritated look at turned back to me.

"Are you Mitchell Mason?"

The excitement at seeing the car extinguished instantly. _Fuck it_. They'd found me.

"I believe we have a mutual friend," he slowly continued. Was there anyone in this town that _wasn't_ involved with this group?

But… this guy wasn't freakishly large and muscled. A genetic implantation gone wrong? A cult member in training? _Gotta rope in the little guy before you can undergo invasive surgery._ Good lord.

But that didn't make sense either. They could have easily kept me on their land a couple hours ago if they 'd wanted to. What would be the point of sending in a rookie to drag me back?

Could it be… he was legit?

The guy's frown had morphed into a glower. Oh, a face that pretty should not be scowling. "Um… yeah. Who're you?"

He ignored me. "You know Seth Clearwater, correct?"

Fuck, they _were_ related somehow. "Well, I wouldn't really say I _know _him. I know of his existence, if that's what you mean." _Do not be a cult trainee. Do not be a cult trainee._

He pursed his lips. "I see."

Aw, come on, dude. Either you're going to drag me back to be assimilated or you're not. Which is it? He was staring at me intensely. Intimidating much?

God, I needed a hit. This would all be so much better if I could have some private time with me and a joint for a half hour.

I didn't think it was possible, but the man's eyes narrowed further. "I would think about your choices before you make them," he snapped, and sliding his sunglasses back over his ears he turned the car sharply and sped off.

I stared blankly where the car had been a moment before, and then stared blankly at the phone in my hand that I still hadn't put back on the receiver. It settled in its place with a gentle click. Well, hell. Could this town _get_ any freakier?

____

As I peered through the peephole at the top of the door and saw the same insanely gorgeous, yet certainly certifiable being from the gas station earlier that day, I considered briefly the odds of having to whip out my gun twice in one day. This is what happens in horror movies, I realized. The bad guy scouts out their victims and then innocently comes to their house to begin the slaughtering.

Well, if I had to die by someone's hands, I guess it wouldn't be too horrible for it to be a crazy, beautiful man. Better than being brainwashed by the buff convention, at any rate.

Resigned to whatever the hell my fate was, I opened the door and looked up into the lovely, scowling face of my killer.

Or celebrity. Or asylum escapee. Or whatever the hell he was.

He was still scowling pretty damn hard, and he seemed pretty angry.

What the fuck had I done that _he_ could be angry?

Unless he had come to kill me. Killers were generally unpleasant people, weren't they?

He pursed his lips very tight, still staring.

I realized I still hadn't said anything. "Hey," he stepped forward like I was going to open the door to let him in, but I didn't budge. Fuck me if I was going to let the random, crazy stranger into my house.

He pinched his nose with his hand and gave an exaggerated sigh. "I'm not going to harm you. Let me inside."

"I don't think so. What do you want?"

He lowered his hand and met my gaze. Now, that was truly unfair. I could drown in the man's eyes for _hours._ No no no, Mitchell. Blood thirsty killer. Must concentrate. Shit, my Glock was upstairs.

"I must insist that you give me a few moments of your time." Did an attitude like this usually work for this fellow? Whatever.

"You got 'em, sunshine."

"Look, I'm not particularly happy about being here either," he snapped. "Now be quiet and let me speak my peace."

Woah. Cranky much? "Sure, whatever."

"I am Seth's friend," he began.

Fuck, this couldn't be good.

"And I made an agreement with him that I would watch for your – your wellbeing." Seth did _what?_

The man leaned forward, eyes intense. "You have certain habits that directly contradict my promise. You need to stop them."

…the fuck?

"Your habit of smoking _weed,_ for example," he continued. "It ends today."

I stared at him. Hard.

"I think the better question would be what are _you_ on." I tried to slam the door, but he stuck his hand in the door and pushed it back open. No, he _shoved_ it back open. Holy crap, the guy was strong. "Look dude, I really, _really_ don't need an intervention."

He stepped forward, and I backed up a step on instinct.

"Who the fuck are you, anyway?"

"My name is Edward," he said. "But we need to discuss exactly what you – "

"Ok, _Edward_. You can tell Seth to take a short jump off a tall cliff. My personal life is my own business, and if he has a problem he can damn well talk to me himself. " Edward frowned and opened his mouth to reply.

"Actually, no. I don't give a shit what Seth thinks, so you can just take you and your concern the fuck out of my house. If you're not leaving then I'm calling the cops." Mitchell Mason threatening people with the police. That was a new one.

Edward seemed to think something about that was a little amusing – of course, they were probably on this fucking group's pay roll too – but nodded and stepped back onto the porch. I slammed the door shut and leaned against it heavily.

Sliding to the ground, I kneeled on the floor and took a deep breath.

That ticket out couldn't come fast enough.

AN: See? I _am_ alive!

I didn't even realize that I'd given Mitchell the same surname as Charles Mason until I reread chapter 2 in prep for chapter 3 and saw MASON there in bright, Verdana print. Apparently serial killers are on the brain. Ha. We're all gonna die, folks.

Reviewing is always, of course, appreciated.


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